RP: A Unicorn Named Wanda

This is a Healer's Guild RP.

Summary: Following a rather peculiar exchange - of quite unsettling draconic visions - Rayala admits Thamalys into her Caves - a sight which leaves the Avian absolutely mesmerised, at least until the conversation turns to old scars and ancient wounds. Meanwhile, some druidic tea is served, and even a Unicorn joins the merry (marred?) mob. Eventually, Dragon and Avian decide to trust each other with some - not all! - of their secrets shrouding their past, and an ambitious plan to give back what was taken from Rayala long ago takes shape…

Xalious Mountain Range: Sky Caves and Their Cavernous Roots

A series of roots that pierce the moist earth above the mines form a series of interconnected cave-like rooms before you. Here, in this room is a pool: a small, crystalline basin of rock-riddled earth, with green sprouts aplenty, fed by a stream of clear water that cuts and trickles happily through the earth. And there, handcrafted furniture forms some sort of sitting room, with many woven, soft leaves serving as cushions to hard, wooden chairs. You might glimpse a hammock, further on through that room, way over there, a huge net of woven vines that seems capable, even, of holding a dragon aloft. And there, beneath it, you may see a nest of glinting gems and treasures hoarded upon the floor. Another room, off the center, and another to follow, and another and another, all wind through the earth. Light streams from above occasionally, streaking this oasis of forest with sun. Do the tops of the trees open to the world above? You would need to climb further to tell. Above, the rocky land of the mountain is accessible, if you know the one way through the trees that seem so densely packed that chipmunks could barely squeeze between trunks. But if you dare leave rocks and rubble and roots in order to wind your way up and around trunks, through branches, there, above the world, you would come to another series of rooms. There are three here, two of the same size, one of which seems to be a workshop of sorts, with half-made chairs and planks strewn about. The third room is massive; it opens to an expanse in the sky, colored by sun and by cloud, devoid entirely of a roof and one wall.

Thamalys would have loved to lean onto something to find some decent support - his head was spinning like a top. Sadly, the only thing within his reach would have been the Dragoness herself - and while he did not doubt such a being had strength in abundance, he just did not trust himself to touch her again. As such, he swayed, helped on his feet by Nebb itself - who was pulling his dreadlocks while flapping around. What a silly display. “There is nothing to ask forgiveness for…” he begun the Blue with a broken voice, eyes lowered onto some not really interesting pebble not the track, “… not you, at least. Some others!” he shouted suddenly, for a moment only almost losing control, an actual gush of flames lightening the whole of his right hand before vanishing into the air. “But then…” he conceded, forcing himself to recall the awful vision the Dragoness gifted him, “… the same reasoning apply, if not to me, to some others within my kin. Silly creatures we are after all. Some are trying to mend the old scars… not myself, though - I just cannot. But I will drink your tea - gladly, and perhaps learn a bit more about herbs I never heard of.” And with that, the Avian would have put his left arm back into the sleeve. He could not meet her eyes, though - blind she was, but there was sorrow nonetheless in her gaze. A glimpse of her true form as well, he also managed to snatch - a privilege. He flew with the Silvery Queen, he flew with The Mighty Blue… a part of him envied the sheer might of the draconic breed. For in instant, he felt the urge to unfurled his wings - just a twitch, though. Then, slowly shaking his head, he would have sidestepped to allow the Druid to take the lead. “After you - with my gratitude, and my apologies. Perhaps this would be the day when some scars would be tended to - at least for a little while…”. In one single swooping motion, the Avian would have collected the yew branches from the dust. Much like a mule, he would have then followed the Dragoness, wherever said lair would have been.

|| Rayala || The number of people Rayala has allowed into her sanctuary of caves is, exactly, four. It shall be five, now, the dragoness supposes as she slips around the avian to take the lead.  The way she walks is strange and lopsided, clearly favoring what you would realize to be her non-metal leg.  Yet this gait is not without some sort of rhythm and, when the pace picks up, even grace. How does she move so swiftly without sight? What is that strange wind about her, rushing ahead, clearing her path? Are the trees themselves bending to accommodate this petite woman? Everything in this forest seems to propel her forward with a will of its own (as opposed to bending to her will) as she practically dances north and west. Thamalys’ path would be clear, too, the forest, the very earth awarding him the same courtesy as the druid. One might realize, keeping pace with Rayala, that she does not, in fact, move -quickly-, persay. In fact, “picking up the pace” for her would match a somewhat slow stroll for another.  But Rayala gives the illusion of speed — wind in her hair, spring in her step, body tilted slightly forward.  Her eyes are closed once more. “We all did terrible things in the war. Mass destruction.  Casualties.  Though I admit my court never took slaves.” She speaks apologetically, still.  “I would not call it silly..” Her voice trails off, but the words do not seek to admonish.  “I would call it…hmm” She shakes her head ever so slighting — which has the effect of sending a tendril of gentle breeze shooting haphazardly away from the rest — “I do not have the word in this tongue.” Instead, she curses in Draconic. “That would be more accurate.  But, of course, it wouldn’t do to translate that in polite company.” Something in her voice sparkles with amusement.  When they arrive, it is to a densely packed section of trees grown where there were few, to begin with — atop the mines.  It is a common sight to any traveller in Kelay/Xalious, visible from the route to Frostmaw.  But…the trees seem too densely packed to even hint at a home, here. Although there might be something way up in their crowns.  A…platform? Some aberration of branches?  Rayala dips inside the mines.  “Come along.”  Once inside, one might notice flickers of pain across Rayala’s face.  Has moving just this distance hurt her? She rubs at what should be her right thigh, if the leg were not metal — although, perhaps the metal ends, higher up? Ara whines and nuzzles his master before running out of the mines again.  Rayala smiles indulgently and speaks again to Thamalys, “He cannot travel as some do. His claws have no purchase in stone.  And while I cannot quite climb unaided either, he abhors…well, you shall see.  He knows his way…” Her left hand traces the wall until it finds a crevice. Something glows upon her right arm, beneath the fabric, as metal fingers grasp a tiny ledge.  “Can you climb? Do you need help?” Tendrils of ivy creep down the wall to greet her, wrapping her waist, supporting her right side.  “Step where I step, they are sturdy.  I can summon vines to aid you, if you are worried about falling. I…suppose actually you could fly, too.  You will find the entrance if you can still see me.” It is hard not to see her.  The flower on her head pulses soft, golden light which reflects down every scale visible upon the petite humanoid form she makes, and even reflects somewhat off the cotton of her shirt and skirt.

Thamalys duly followed the odd ambling of the Dragoness through the forest track, his otherwise incredibly quick pace hindered by the dragging along of the yew branches - in the end, Druid and Spellblade would have thus found themselves proceeding at not too dissimilar speed. Mixed thoughts raced through that stubborn head of his, while witnessing the truly peculiar way Royal would have gracefully carved her way through wooden path first and even more treacherous ground soon after, when approaching the mines themselves. A part of the Blue would have tended to offer some sort of… assistance, for a lack of a better word, but he knew better: a strange way she had to bend the elements around her, but a powerful nonetheless. Intimidated, he was not - just a tad nervous, given his recent past with enveloping wines and cursed vegetables alike. In the background, the dull aching of her touch still echoed, much as a cruel symphony long ago forgotten and yet never truly abandoned. On he moved, carefully pacing himself in utter silence, trying to endure the Black, for once genuinely amused by what it appeared to have been a rather eloquent string of Draconic curses - polite company indeed! “I… I think I would take this opportunity to stretch my wings for a moment, if you would not mind…” eventually uttered the Blue, already stepping away from the vines crawling down the wall. “This is beautiful magic, don’t get my wrong…” he hastily added, actually waving both hands around as to stress the veracity of said statement, “… I would rather avoid creeping plants, though. After you…” he conceded with a small bow, taking thus the opportunity to salute the massive hound, presently retracing his steps toward the exit of the mines. What was it that the mongrel could not stand within the Dragoness’ liar? Now that made the Avian quite nervous indeed, and for a very good reason, as the Blue spent years trapped into Korkhoran dungeons - a place of darkness and sorrow, a cage his only companion. Was the Spellblade about to enter a similar place? A dim lit labyrinth of winding caves never blessed by the sun at all? With a shrug, he shoved away that thought, taking instead a few steps back from the wall. The Dragoness was already making fast progresses with respect to her climb, so  that the Aviana judged the time as being ripe. Onward he dashed, a lightening  sprint he truly needed to provide a decent run up. Meanwhile, in a silky smooth motion, the full extent of the Blue’s wings came to crowd the space. Ridiculously massive, each feather clad in silver, that shiny curtain swooped down to displace a monumental amount of air - that much the Winged Beast needed to climb off the ground. A low circle painting into the air - swiftly followed by Nebb, as per usual happy enough to play around with the Wind, especially together with is winged master - the Healer waited till the Druid disappeared through the leafy ceiling. A moment after and, not without some hesitation, the Blue soared through the tangle of plants, piercing the ceiling like a needle the leather. He dared not to open his eyes, yet - he perilously stalled mid-air instead, sort of trying to collect the courage he needed to get a proper look at the Dragoness’ liar. The Ageless Black himself, almost stunned, held his breath - a most unusual occurrence.

Rayala does not ease the magic she uses as the pair together trek their rather-winding way through the woods, and so one may easily draw the conclusion that she is either ignorant of the nervousness of her companion or ignoring it.  Upon his pain, too — some hint of it may or may not have passed to her through her touch as hers had to him — there is no comment.  And if his voice in the mines evidences his the stress he feels, she does not ask upon it. It is not her place. He will tell further if he wishes. A simple nod is her only response to his request at flight—she does not speak, now, not yet at least, and perhaps this journey has tired the dragoness? A smile that is supposed to be sweet and reassuring is tempered by some physical pain now settling into her...leg, it seems, into which she presses her fingers quite deeply, both metal and flesh alike. It gets a rest when climbing, though —she uses her arms to pull herself up to the ceiling of the mines and her good leg to guide and balance and help.  Those vines must also be augmented with something, as they offset her weight with ease.  Both dragon and avian would have to stop in the series of caves formed by the giant roots of trees one level above the mine before moving anywhere else. When the dragoness pulls herself up to this, the first level of her home, she sighs.  “I will rest here a moment. Here is my workshop and my home space and so here is for rest and for crafting.  We can take our tea above, however, once it is made.  I have a feeling you will like my landing platform, if you like to fly. There’s a lake…down…yonder.  You are welcome to explore — anywhere here and above,” she gestures up towards what must be skyward.  Where slits form between roots and light is able to reach, you find sky and tree shooting up as though they never end.  “Though you might have to fly around a bit before you can find a clear path skyward.  My trees are quite densely packed.” She thinks a moment.  “If you wish to see what I work into your tea, you may also join me.  But I will be a moment or so before I can show you anything with plants.  I must check my charges.”  Rayala indicates her surroundings with a tilt of her head, the gesture clearly implying -Listen!-.   Thamalys would indeed find himself in a series of dark and cavernous rooms, though it is not pitch dark, here, and the place can only ever be described as homey.  All around are crafted things, -beautiful- things, some wood, some metal, some stone, some, even, mud.  Many things are practical. Many more are works of art.  Everything is exquisite.  Is this, perhaps, Rayala’s hoard? The hammock a ways away, visible from this room though taking up the majority of another cave all to itself, is a hammock woven with leaves and furs and vines.  Beneath it is a more traditional hoard of coins and gold and things, all in piles, displaying none of the organization that the crafted items would.  Most striking of all, perhaps, however, is the -noise- of the place and the tiny flickers of movement you see as hundreds of animals — seeming to be in various stages of being healed — check you out.  No roars or screeches, here, only rustles and footsteps. IT is an overwhelmingly peaceful place.  You see a fox asleep next to a rabbit…a lion, next to a gazelle.  They appear to be….cuddling? Predetor and pray seem to have no meaning, here.  “Your kite will find a female friend if he travels to the room with the hammock. But he should know…he will find much food here. But he and you are both subject to the same  rules as any other creature.  If either of you hunt within my lair, or else otherwise purposefully harm another living thing, you will no longer be welcome.”  She pauses.  “I can be quite unpleasant.  And I do know how to breathe fire.” She pauses again.  “I -will- still bring you tea, though.”

Thamalys took advantage of the calm voice of the Dragoness, eventually reaching him beyond the hidden passageway, as a long-awaited incentive to open his eyes, slowly furling those silvery wings with a metallic tinkling. And what a view the Blue was blessed with - the scale of it was monumental, the senses of the Avian perfectly aware of the huge length scales spanned by the tangles of corridors. There was fresh air, and some sunlight as well, and so much life thriving within that liar - he sighed, relief evident in his breathing, much of the pain washed away by the very essence of such a place. If ever he imagined the perfect opposite of Korkhoran’s dungeons… whatever guess of his would have fallen so short of Rayala’s craft. “This is grand, o’ Druid…” were the first words that the Spellblade managed to put together, while slowly turning on his heels to probe the extent of the workshop they found themselves into. “I can feel the sky meddling with your magic, I can smell clean air within these roots…” continued, his voice almost lost in a dream far away, while slowly pacing along the walls, caressing wood, his eyes constantly looking for yet another detail. Countless elements, multitudinous variations of awe and beauty. The Avian had no interest in gold and the like, but he could appreciate elegance and taste - on the other hand, Nebb was quite overexcited, not only because of a fresh possibility to explore a rather interesting maze, but most prominently as he could definitely tell there was company for him, and not too far away indeed. A dangerous situation, in light of the Dragoness’ remarks about hunting restrictions. As such, the Blue would have called the Kite with a soft, clicking sound - upon which the bird of prey immediately descended on the Avian, perched on his right shoulder, nervous as it could be but - at least for now - willing to obey his master. The latter was shaking his head slowly, still quite bewildered, until the sight of the Druid, still massaging her metallic limb, brought him back to the moment. “Having been allowed in here is already quite a magnificent gift, Rayala - I am grateful. And yes, I would be keen to witness the preparation of that beverage of yours. Now then, though…” and here he would have dared a few steps in her direction, for some silly reason making sure to produce as much noise as possible - as if the Druid would not have noticed his movements. Truth be told, the sheer scale of that liar, the obvious age of it, the memories almost oozing from roots and masterpieces alike, had the Blue, for once, quite intimidated. The presence of the Dragoness imposed quite some respect per se, sure, but witnessing her within that place… now - that - was something, even for Avian standards. In any case, the Winged Beast was getting closer. “… it would not take a healer to notice that your leg is bothering you to no end” noted the Winged Beast flatly. He did not add that he was wondering how exactly that metal was bond to affect the Dragoness in her true form - but his thoughts must have been as loud as thunder for the Druid. Matter of fact, the Blue desperately wanted to get more than a simple glimpse of the scaly creature scattered within a painful memory - and, in there? What a sight the golden-and-black soul must have been to behold. And yet, he simply pressed on with his wording, his duty as a Healer inexorably dragging toward her leg. “I am no craftsman, I am afraid, but a Healer nonetheless. If you would allow me to take a look at that… perhaps I could make a start repaying you for your kindness.” Not a single note of malice in that voice - the Blue was simply not capable to think of any. Meanwhile, a whole trio of rather merry starlings flocked into the workspace, cheerfully encircling Avian and Kite alike. The latter was making such an effort to stay put… “alright, alright - off you go, Nebb…” interjected the Blue, finally releasing the bird who like a loaded spring dashed into the feathery mob to play around. With some luck, he would have managed to hurt no-one. 

Rayala steps further away, to a table on the far side of this cavernous room. She putters around, opening jars and closing them and as she putters, she mutters softly, half to her guest and half to herself. “You’ll need light, of course, I think. I’m sure your keen eyes can see well enough, given the marvelous description you have given me of my own home. Never has it been described with such wonder. I appreciate your...” she stumbles for a word. <Appreciation>, she says, in draconic. “I appreciate your appreciating it”, she clarifies, not in the least embarrassed for the clumsiness of her words. Her voice, perhaps unsurprisingly given the vast space, is low but clear. It carries as if borne by the very air around her—acoustics or the Druid’s unconscious magic? Useful, regardless. Cast in shadow, now, it is indeed harder to tell exactly what the Druid gathers and lays out before her on the table. “Now what did we decide on? Tea. Dandelion and Burdock roots, yes, and....cleavers, maybe. Lavender. And a poultice, maybe, to ease you until you can be properly seen to. The same, but with...Oats. More Lavender”. She sighs. “You have no aversion to imbibing magic, do you?” She asks as her nimble, tiny fingers of her non-metal hand pry out several seeds from an even tinier metal jar and plant them in a large pot filled with rich earth which sits just to the left of her workbench. “I will have to...” just then, the Kite takes flight. Rayala’s smile interrupts her speech and it lights across her face. The joy of the bird in flight is echoed in her expression and it is almost—almost—enough to make her otherwise plain and marred features beautiful. “They will teach him the rules, yes.” she assures Thamalys, tenderly, referring to the starlings which dance and play amidst the winding branches that comprise the ceiling. Perhaps she has sensed his anxiety. After planting the seeds, she laughs. “Oh, of course. Light.” She scrambles for a lantern, but there is none to be found. “Perhaps upstairs. Or...hm. Easier to ask Wanda. Wanda?” But here, she pauses. She had not been intentionally ignoring Thamalys’ words, but she had nonetheless passed over something he had said—something he had -offered-. What was it? Her leg. The smile freezes on her face as she is caught by caution. Its hold there now seems plastic, more a grimace than a grin. “I…” But meanwhile, this name has beckoned a creature, a glorious, wonderous sight more beautiful and breathtaking than anything crafted in these chambers, certainly. No sooner had Rayala uttered it, no sooner had she expressed her intention to the world at large, than a large head with a glorious horn emerges from the depths of a doorway which had been so enshrouded in darkness it seemed a part of the wall, simply a shadow cast by the thick ever-winding wood. The horn begins to glow, followed by the head, and, as it enters the room, the body: A flood of peace and light at once, a shining so brilliant, so easy and so good it lifts all sighs from breasts. Wanda is a unicorn. As if she knows she is safe here, as well she probably does, she trots quickly over to Thamalys. She stays enough of a distance away that she is out of petting range, but her light shines true. As he moves, she will follow. “I was saying...yes...you have no aversion to magic? I have no fresh lavender. I will have to grow some.” The dragon hesitates. “As for my leg,” she says, her voice tight with hesitance, though there is no denying the honesty in her manner, as she opens to the avian. “Yes, it pains me. I have done damage to the prosthesis I wear, I think, and it pulls at the bone.” She shrugs. “It is a small matter,” her shoulders angle away from him as she utters this last, the lie causing her body to twist, slightly—not that one needs to read body language to tell it; the Druid’s empathy makes the air positively pregnant with untruth. “Perhaps after we have seen to you, you might take a look to see if there is anything that can be done. My sight has prohibited me from trying anything thus far.”

Thamalys moved with invite care, one foot after the other one - they call it walking, but in this case it would have appeared as the Avian barely touched the ground. The tidiness of the place was complete, and yet the sheer amount of things the Blue threatened to knock over - his speciality - meant that he was watching each swaying of his dreadlocks, each swoop of his clothes. “Lavender, I am rather fond of…” sort of confessed the Winged Beast, carefully leaning onto a table not too far away from the busy Dragon. “I have been told I… smell like such. Or pine trees, in fact. Somebody went as far as saying candies, but none of those make sense to us.” He wondered what Rayala would have got for in that context - in his experience, that choice was not the whim of fate, but something running much deeper. “In any case…  please, feel free to make use of any craft of yours. I… have been brutally made aware of the power of Druidic magic, but that is in the past, now…” he commented, and yet he would have clutched his left arm meanwhile, as if the awful curse of the Wooden Puppeteer never truly ended. “Truth be told, I would love to witness that…” he was referring to the impromptu gardening feat promised by the Dragon. Oh, that sort of skill would have been of such tremendous use for keeping in check the knotty green mess presently growing within the glassy walls of Emilia’s greenhouse… perhaps he could put together an invitation? Later on, maybe. At the moment, the newcomer had the undivided attention of the Spellblade. “I… I have never had the privilege to see one in the flesh…” marvelled the Blue, for a split second only trying to reach toward the immaculate shapes of the Unicorn. Her ambling recalled that of Mythayus’ deer - Wind, has it really been years? - only softer and yet sharper. As Wanda retreats, plainly offended by the mere thought of being touched, the Healer steps back, offering a small bow that exudes a genuine apology. In his defence, few would have remained immune to such beauty. Rayala kept chattering, and the Avian kept pace, albeit engaged in a merry chase with Wanda. Circling around tables and trees, the Blue forced the unicorn into a bit of a trot, till - and righteously so - she would have stopped, shaking her beautiful cranium. To which, the Avian laughed - a rough sound, the byproduct of an incredibly rare occurrence. The Dragon’s Den truly had to be imbued with some powerful enchantments, to have the T’Zur breaking into a smile. To taint that glorious peace, eventually, came Rayala’s remark about her leg: why lying? That much was clear. Out of kindness, not to trouble a weary Healer? No, it still sounded out place. || Some wounds, one keeps to remember… || silently interjected the Black, cackling madly. The Bastard could have been right, though. The Dragon had incredible means at her disposal - surely calling upon the Guilds would have been an option, if she really wanted to? “At your service…” simply offered the Blue - less is more, or so he thought, right before Nebb plummeted from somewhere up high, followed by a murmuration of starlings, no less. The feathered companion was having quite a grand time, and Thamalys himself felt the urge to join the merry mob. “Let us enjoy this magical tea of yours, then…” sighed the Avian, the rims of his wings twitching with desire.

Rayala falls quiet as she works, the rambling quality of her previous babble fading into contemplative silence. Waving a hand, she easily and wordlessly coaxes lavender from the planted seeds. They unfurl slowly and grow as she takes down a steel square from a shelf. She begins to cough, a hacking, harsh noise. Smoke fills the air around her, seeping from her mouth and nostrils. A rumble deep in her stomach preempts a fireball, spit into her hand like phlegm. She smoothed it upon the plate. Tiny, glowing orange lines appear and fade again as the metal absorbs the heat with barely a whispered word from the druid. She smiles at the warmth. This is her element. She sets a pot, already filled with water, upon the plate. She strips fine, fresh roots from stalks and slices them finer still with a small silver knife. How are they still fresh? She had plucked them from a jar. Some preservation magic, mayhap, upon the glass? Her metal hand fixes around the handle of a knife; her fleshed fingers guide the blade and measure the slow, careful slices. Water seeps from every slice, making a small puddle. When she has finished, she chants a low word in draconic and shudders as though suddenly cold. The water pulls back into the roots. She scoops them into a metal bowl with a practiced hand. As she waits for the water to boil, she picks the lavender just as the flowers begin to open and cuts it into short pieces. Into the bowl they go. She absently crushes everything together. There seems to be far too much for tea. The wet resultant mixture is split into two portions, one twice the size of the other. The smaller of the two is strained with another few draconic words, and another slight shiver, and the resultant water is split into two mugs as the pulpy mixture is packed into two metal tea strainers. Meanwhile, Wanda plays and chases, hooves dancing upon the warm earth, kicking up clods. Her mane shimmers behind her. Rayala pauses and looks up. She cannot see the antics of the avian and unicorn, but she can feel them, perhaps, or else sense them in some other way, for her face follows their general location with an amused expression. When finally their steps come to a pause, Wanda would reward Thamalys for his joy, and her own: she carefully creeps closer and thrusts forth her muzzle in his direction. Could it be she will now allow a pet? Could she be seeking his affection? Boiling water is ladled into two mugs, the tea strainers placed within, some dried rosehips thrown in atop on a whim and both set aside to steep. Then, Rayala attends to the other portion, packing oats into a bowl atop it and mixing well. The remaining hot water is set back atop the still-hot plate, and the oats and herbs are placed into the slowly simmering liquid. “Now we wait, longer for one than the other.” Rayala smiles again, a soft, contented thing that quirks higher up one side of her face than the other. “As for my leg...” she shrugs, absently. If she is in any way aware of his curiosity or his concern, she says nothing else besides, “We shall see.” She makes her way over to Wanda and carefully, tentatively, reaches out to pet her. It is a brief thing, stopped short for some reason of the dragon and not of the unicorn, it seems, for the latter for a moment looks as if she will follow Rayala’s hand with her body before thinking better of it.

Thamalys halted his dance with the Unicorn solely to make sure of the origin of that rasping cough - a dozen cats altogether would have fallen short of said noise. And thus he halted, from a distance witnessing the very much non-conventional, if surely properly draconic, tea-making procedure. And he thought he could master flames… perhaps, but his magic had been carved into him, into his ink, into his skin. Rayala moved and chanted as if every movement was a natural extension of her body and mind - such a stark difference. Perhaps it was that distraction that eventually allowed Wanda to trot a little closer to the Spellblade - and a similar opportunity was not to be ignored. Nailing his solid blue gaze onto the glimmering animal, the Avian would have extended his right arm, slowly, simply offering the back of his hand for Wand to rest her cranium onto the rough, icy skin of the Winged Beast. That she did, an expression halfway between surprise and alarm painted in her eyes: no warmth, no nothing from the Healer - only the creepy vision of ivy-shaped branches curling on his fingers. The Unicorn shrugged, stepping back - not disgusted, simply confused, or so the Blue hoped. His heart was grateful nonetheless, despite a loud sigh that managed to escape those broken grey lips.  The brief interaction between Unicorn and Dragon did not escape the Blue either: why that hesitation? He shook his head, a cascade of ivory dreadlock swaying in protest. So smoothly Rayala moved within her liar that the Avian almost forgot she must have had ages to recall from: there was very little he could infer then - and in all honestly, he did not even want to. He liked what he saw, and not even his proverbial paranoia could succeed in tainting that calm. He offered a feint to Wanda - who obviously did not fall for it - and fetched a wooden stool from a bench nearby, carefully lifting it with both hands as to both wipe off a bit of greenish dust and avoid to trip into the cumbersome intricacy of the blossoming floor. There he perched, still pondering about dragons and unicorns - and as such oblivious to Rayala’s remark about waiting. “Sorry, you were sa - aaaaaarrrgh!” hollered the Winged Beast, as he wolfed down half of the still-boiling tea. Turned out that the famous resistance of the Blue to cold and heat did not necessarily included his throat - go figure.

Rayala hears that sigh and immediately, almost unconsciously, her magic gently seeks, gently pries at the surface emotions of the man currently standing within her home. “Are you...” she murmurs, confused by the sigh when all she can sense is gratefulness, “...all right?” She finishes her sentence along with her own brief contact with Wanda. She answers his confusion verbally—perhaps she is still attuned to him? “I am allergic to her magic,” she explains, a tinge of sadness and something else—perhaps anger?—easily readable in her voice. “I cannot sustain light magic for long. Her holiness..wars with me.” She faces Thamalys full on and twitches her eyes open. Within what must regularly be hurricanes of grey and white, flecks of gold and shadow dance. At first, the gold, most surely reminiscent of holy magic at its purest, outweighs the dark, but, as though fighting back, the shadowy specks multiply, first attaching to and then overwhelming their counterparts. Rayala takes a few deep breathes, and then a few more, clearly concentrating on something.    It is perhaps this concentration that causes her to miss the reaching hand, the quick sip. Too late she calls out “no...” and then she shakes her head. “It is still seeping, still cooling,” she explains, unnecessarily, now. As she laughs, and oh does she laugh, her still open eyes find a balance once again. The black and gold first even out in number, then fade into the grey. Perhaps her breathing had affected them? Perhaps simple time? Perhaps her laughter had something to do with it? She sets about stirring the oats, now almost oatmeal, in the pot. And then, quite suddenly, as though continuing a thought she had only been thinking, she asks, “and how is your arm?” She remembers him telling her about the curse, about the darkened Druid who had so afflicted him. “If there are lingering effects, the tea should...soothe. I think I told you already about its properties,” she shrugs, awkwardly, not knowing what else to say, perhaps not knowing how else to make conversation if it is not about ailments or animals.

Thamalys stuck his tongue out, in a vain attempt to bring back the temperature of the latter from piping hot to decent - he looked like a massive greyhound eagerly waiting to go on a stroll. “Yes, I did notice…” commented the Blue, a merry note in his voice as the Dragon burst into laughter. “My arm…” and with that, his tone old have sunk into a completely different mood. “… is in the past. In the past…” repeated, a bit too quickly to give the impression that was the whole truth about it. How ironic, two scarred creatures playing shy with each other. And yet, such was the way of Lythridel - trust was something earned by much longer conversations than a tea-time endeavour. “Do you think I can try some of that porridge, now?” inquired with some good measure of hope the Avian, his stomach rumbling as to highlight that statement.

Rayala comments no further on the matter of the arm. She understands all too well the concerns of lingering injuries; to the mental scars left in physical wake, too, she is accustomed. She sets about stirring oats, again, throwing in what would be identifiable as fresh, homemade maple syrup, to anyone with the knowledge of what such looks like. “Almost ready”, she murmurs softly, in that same wind-carried voice. Even Wanda huffs impatiently, which of course brings another easy smile to the dragoness’ face. At Rayala’s next question, “Oh, I’m sorry, were you expecting something as well?” Wanda thrusts her glorious muzzle towards the pot filled with earthy-sweet-smelling food. Rayala tastes some of the burning mixture — no adverse reaction in the gold’s mouth, of course, for she was born and bred in fire — and finally, finally, ladies out some into metal bowls. Swirls of syrup adorn a golden-brown, lumpy mess. “Careful, it’s still hot.”

Thamalys watched with some badly disguised impatience the careful moves of the Dragon. Everything she did spoke of balance, of care, of precision - the Blue envied her, for much of his actions were marred by chaos and impulse. There was much to be learned, there, much to take in - the quiet, for one, and that magnificent feeling as if nothing would have really managed to get to you whilst buried within the leafy meanders of Rayala’s den. “Thank you…” simply offered the Spellblade, gratefully nodding while clutching with both hands one of the bowls; there is nothing like the warmth of home-made food. How long was it? Entire weeks, perhaps, since the Avian had the chance to have a meal without the need of watching his back - it felt superb. Slowly, the Blue took advantage of the fact that Wanda, notwithstanding the warning of the Dragon, already tucked into the golden mix - to allow himself to touch the silky skin of the unicorn once more. She did not seem to mind anymore. And perhaps was the perfection of the moment who brought the Blue to step up a game - for a game it was, make no mistake. “My arm pains me still - sometimes…” muttered the Winged Beast, looking away from Dragon and Unicorn alike. “It is nothing compared to the actual curse, but I believe I would never be free of it entirely. Not that I am complaining, of course. Scars, we all have, have we not? It was thanks to the help of Emilia that we were eventually able to eradicate what was festering in me.” He shivered, the smaller droplet of maple syrup escaping the metallic boundaries of the bowl to land on the wooden table. “Some of her blood now runs in my veins. Not many knows” added the Avian, swaying his head to look into the ever-changing eyes of Rayala. He did not ask, he dared not. But his eyes even escaped for a split second to gaze upon her limping leg. Was the Dragon ready for some disclosure - or was tithe wound too old, the sorrow too sharp, the pain too intimate a thing to share?

Rayala indeed is careful with every practiced motion, not a single gesture or movement without some purpose or another. As she takes her own bowl, however, with her metal arm, one can see indents where she grips too hard, denting the metal. Is this perhaps why so many of her tools are metal instead of her obviously preferred elemental wood? She hands an allmost forgotten spoon to Thamalys as she takes one for her own meal. With a lazy wave of said spoon, almost using it as a wand, she causes two trees to rise out of the earth. Bushes, really. They twist and contort themselves into something with flattened top — two stools now exist where none had before. Is this entire earthy cavern covered with seeds? It does not seem implausible. The druid takes her own seat, grateful to her own magic, as she listens to Thamalys speak, not interrupting. Her eyes dart back and forth behind closed lids. An expression of sympathy rests upon her face. When she finally speaks, her voice is casual, as though they are discussing nothing more than the weather. ”The lemon balm in the tea should help you with residual pain and should ease your sleep tonight. All my herbs are pretty potent....as well as having usually pleasant taste. The dandelion roots cleanse the blood. Lavender has its own properties, mostly antiseptic. I...am not much of a healer of humans, but it is possible I could research methods of helping you, if you’d like? And I have...” She grimaces, slightly, the corners of her mouth pulling tight. “I could take a look, with magic. Shadows are as much a part of my blood as light. I posess some of the Obsidian...my father was Obsidian...ability to pull energy into myself. The evil in them usually means pulling life force from another creature, but it can be used for good. I have used it once before to pull a curse out of another. His name is Krice, he would be able to give me some reference, if you require it.” She pauses, thinking. She does not disclose that she is as allergic to dark magic as she is to light, that it threatens to unbalance her carefully balanced system easily as much as Wanda’s light. “Though I am confident that we might be able to alleviate some of your suffering with magical poultices or brews. Something stronger than tea. If you’d like to try.” She pauses again. “I know something of lingering injuries. I was taken prisoner by Fermin and lost two limbs to experimentation.” Her voice wavers a break in her calm mask. “They do not pain me much anymore, though the setting on my leg has gone wrong, somehow. What pains me most is the loss of my wings.” There, she has said it. She feels the urge to run, but she steadies herself and stays.

Thamalys took the spoon, eyeing the sprouting seats quite literally blossoming from the very ground. Silent, the Blue would have listened to the long list of actions the Dragon was willing to take in order to ease his pain. An impressive list - too long not to ask the obvious question as the Healer he was. “The Silvery Enigma? Who would have thought…” whispered the Spellblade as she went along. Eventually, she yielded - the Blue was almost glad at first, but the tale of the Fermin soon ruined his spirit. Good thing the Dragon had not been shy in dispensing the maple syrup - everything else was bitter, and even Wanda shivered when Rayala spoke this last words of hers. The Blue groaned as physically injured, putting the still fuming bowl back to the table. Any appetite was gone. By the Wind, - that - was simply unthinkable to him. Losing her wings? “I… “ began the Spellblade, but his voice failed him. Suddenly, he felt awfully guilty, sporting his monumental silvery wings right in the face of the Wingless Dragon. To lose them… no, death would have been a much, much sweeter fate for an Avian than to lose the absolute freedom of climbing the clouds. A single droplet of the purest blue rolled down the cheek of the Healer, sizzling when reaching the floor before vanishing into the soil. Wanda stepped away, perhaps incapable to cope with so much sorrow. “Until today, I thought I knew the true nature of pain” claimed the Avian, steeling himself while daring to set back his gaze upon the golden feature of the Dragon. “I was wrong. My mind cannot even process the scale of the torment you are enduring. I am at loss…” and he truly was. He meant to ask her about the Guild. He wanted to offer his skills to aid with her leg. But there was nothing he could do about the Wingless Dragon - and he knew that, as well as she did.

Rayala hears what can only be a nickname for Krice, and lets loose another grimace. She knows what a private person her friend is. “On second thought, perhaps you should not mention it to him. I did not mean to betray a confidence. Know only that I have done such once before, yes?” She shakes her head. It is unlike her to make such a mistake as this. Quiet steeps the air for half as long as the herbs had steeped in water. Regret lays heavy in her words. She means to speak no more on her injuries, but finds the words leaving her lips before she can stop them: once they have started flowing, they are as chilling and as uncontrollable as a torrent. “I get around okay, walking, for the most part. And...and I -can- fly. Sort of. I can soar, at least, and steer, thanks to my magic. But...” The dragoness shakes her head. “You are one of the sky-folk. You must know it is not the same. And to control my wings — they were reattached, though lack sensation — I must brace them with vines, control them with branches that must penetrate my skin. It is easier to bear in the form of a dragon, but still unpleasant.” Her lips purse. “I have never contacted a healer to repair them futher. I am worried they are beyond help. And my leg...I know of only one who can fix what has gone wrong, a smith known by Ranok, he who gifted me metal limbs to replace what had been lost. I have been unable to be in contact him, however.”

Thamalys granted the Dragon’s request not to share that information with Krice without any regret - it was difficult enough to simply get the chance to talk with the Silvery Enigma, let alone to bring up in conversations some ancient wounds. Meanwhile, Rayala added context, to an extent alleviating the burden of her tale. “They are not bygone, then!” bellowed the Blue, almost jumping on his feet, his hands trembling with the energy of those who realised the tiniest shard of hope is not yet lost. “Rayala, you are offering porridge to the Adeptus Major of the Healer’s Guild… it is within my duty to offer you not only my help - for as much as my skills can heal most of what walks under the sun, I fear that Dragon’s wings will require much more than my arts alone - but the help of the whole Guild. We shall be honoured if you would let us try.” By then, the Blue was actually standing, circling the table, striding impatiently, fists clenched, the huge mass of his dreadlocks swaying in an liquid dance around him. Wanda looked perplexed, to put it mildly. “I know Ranok, and I know his skills, but there are a few more in Lythridel who can help you…” kept going the Spellblade, his voice raising with the purest excitement. "But what is a limb, for us? Nothing! Flying, oh, Rayala, if there is even the faintest glimmer of hope, we must try - I cannot suffer the mere thought of knowing you Wingless, not a beautiful soul like you. Would you please allow me, would you please allow the - Guild - to try? One word only, and Nebb will shoot to Ara. One word only - I beg you…”

Rayala seems taken aback at the excitement now displayed before her. It is catching, would be catching to anyone, perhaps, but for her with her empathic nature, especially. It thrums through her body. It weaves and mixes in her very soul and offers that most painful and most beautiful emotion of all — hope. “I...” Yet still the dragoness wavers. “I would caution against offering me promises that cannot be fulfilled...” She tries to maintain caution, however, her tentative expression belies the hope which blossoms in her fire belly, first. Heat exudes in waves from her before she can get control again. “But if there is any chance of flying unaided...is it not worth it?” She seems to talk to herself more than Thamalys, seems to be convincing herself as much as the avian is as well. “To fly unfettered....to swift and shift among the currents...I....” She shudders: excitement? Fear? That same hope? The corners of her mouth quirk upwards as she offers, “If you will allow me to research ways that I might help you with your lingering pain, then I...I think...yes.” Her smile turns wry. “My porridge must be excellent indeed, to procure such an offer from a new...friend.” Only the keenest ears would hear the hesitation before the word, ‘friend’. Perhaps she is wary of using the word too soon. Perhaps, even, her history with the avian race causes such stutter. Whatever the cause, it is there and it is said, and she does not take it back.

Thamalys waited, aware of the complexity of the emotions that must have swirled into the Dragon. He knew patience. Much as a hunter, he let her thoughts unravel, watching from the distance, almost pretending not to listen. Ah, but he was listening, and her words set many, many cogs in motion. “I cannot and I - will - not promise anything at all - but the fact that myself and the Guild will do our very best. That much, yes, I can confidently offer to you. My pain… oh, I am going to accept your kind offer, but you should know there is more to it. Your skills are rare, and if along your pursuit toward alleviating my pain there is something I can learn, and put to the service of the Guild… why then, it would be a crime not to accept. Nebb!” yelled the Blue, just in time to cover - on purpose? - the sounds of the very last word uttered from the Dragon. Not that he did not cherish the idea (a part of him desperately wanted to answer in kind), but he knew better - the scars of the Avian run much deeper than his arm’s tendons and bones. || Older and wiser, eh? It is all for naught, silly… she - will - get to know me, sooner or later… you know that! || promised in perfect silence the Ageless Black. Meanwhile, Nebb plummeted from the sky, landing gracefully on the Blue’s shoulder with a small shriek. “Your porridge is excellent indeed, Rayala… it has been a long time since I had the pleasure of such a host. Thank you…” noted the Spellblade, quickly scribbling a few words with a small piece of sharp coal on an even smaller piece of parchment - tiny, elegant characters for Emilia. A few words, harsh to hear for most, and the red kite was gone, cutting through the air without so much of a sound. The Guild would be ready.